


(What You Do To Me) Feels Like I'm Floating On Air

by waitingforjudas



Series: Judas' Kinktober 2019 [7]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alpha Derek Hale, BDSM, Blindfolds, Blow Jobs, Dom Stiles Stilinski, Dom/sub, Established Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski, Flogging, Kinktober, Kinktober 2019, M/M, Masks, Oral Sex, Sub Derek Hale, Suspension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-08
Updated: 2019-10-08
Packaged: 2020-11-27 08:03:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,979
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20945045
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/waitingforjudas/pseuds/waitingforjudas
Summary: Telling Stiles he was interested in submission was one of the harder things Derek's done—but he's pretty sure that admitting how far he wants to submit will drive Stiles away. Derek doesn't just want to submit—he wants to give into his masochistic desires without fear.But it's not like Stiles wants to tie him up, suspend him five feet above the floor, and beat him until he comes… does he?Written for Kinktober 2019 prompts: Blow Jobs, Suspension, Masks, and Flogging.





	(What You Do To Me) Feels Like I'm Floating On Air

**Author's Note:**

> Hey! So this got away from me in terms of plot and scope—I hope that you enjoy reading it. As of now, the Fifty Shades of Stiles series is considered complete, but if something comes up down the line, I may extend it again. Kudos and comments are always appreciated. If you want to see an additional timestamp or something, let me know and I may get around to it after Kinktober and NaNoWriMo :)
> 
> To clarify, this is _bondage_ suspension, not piercing suspension. 
> 
> Also, bondage suspension is crazy fucking dangerous if you don’t know exactly what the fuck you’re doing, so take this as a fictional work for entertainment, not as a guide to tie someone up and hang them from the ceiling. 
> 
>   
_Written for Kinktober 2019. Prompt list can be found at https://twitter.com/NihilistShiro/status/1162794889970511872._

Derek hadn’t told anybody other than the jeweler that he needed an engagement ring. Or, more specifically, that he needed his mother’s engagement ring resized. 

It had been finished today. Derek was planning on proposing on their four-year anniversary, but he wanted to keep the ring on him for the next couple of weeks, just in case an opportunity arose. 

But there were still things that he hadn’t told Stiles. 

Derek rubbed the velvet box in his pocket. 

He was happy. He was happy that he’d told Stiles, and he was happy that they did scenes somewhat similar to the first every couple of weeks. He was happy that he’d worked up enough courage to tell Stiles the truth that day—and he was especially happy that Stiles had taken it so well. 

A few weeks after their first scene, they’d gone to a fetish club and started asking around to find mentors. Stiles’ was a man named Deaton, a Dom who made Derek nervous but who came so highly-recommended that Stiles had asked him anyway (only to find that the reason Derek was so nervous was that Deaton was a druid emissary). And Derek’s mentor was, funnily enough, Stiles’ longtime crush, Lydia Martin. 

Things were going well. 

Except that Derek still hadn’t been able to admit that he wanted… other things, too. He’d been able to talk about some things, but the kink questionnaire they’d worked through together had been… brief. 

Derek had suggested it as a way to make sure they were completely comfortable with what they were doing—and that had led to a long discussion about how Derek should always feel comfortable to talk about things that he wasn’t enjoying. Stiles had eventually been convinced, though, that Derek wasn’t suggesting it as a way to mark everything as hard limits and end their stint in kink, but when Derek had suggested a few questionnaires online, Stiles had told him that he’d find one himself. 

“I’ll find something, okay?” 

And Derek had agreed, thinking that Stiles was going to find something even more exhaustive, but instead, it had been a one-page, double-spaced sheet of the kinks that they’d been exploring already. 

Derek didn’t have it in him to explain that he wanted to do this because he wanted to bring up new kinks, and maybe—well, he knew that it was just Stiles’ insecurities about their scenes together, but still. 

“Derek,” Lydia said, pulling him back to the present day. “You need to tell him. Point-blank. The boy’s an idiot, you know this.”

Derek huffed, pulling his hand out of his pocket and folding his arms. Lydia was dominant everywhere except for the bedroom. “He’s not an idiot.”

“Then he’s oblivious. Call it what you will, but he’s not going to figure this out himself.” 

“He’s the pack emissary, it’s not like—”

“He’s good at that, but he’s not good at talking about his sadism. You should’ve seen him when he told me. He barely managed a sentence and then he had a panic attack. Deaton’s probably been trying to help him feel more confident about it, but—”

“Lydia,” Derek interjected. “I know this isn’t— I don’t—”

“All I’m saying is that you both need to communicate more. Don’t think that, just because he’s the Dom, he’s perfect.” 

“How do I bring it up?”

Lydia shrugged, leaning back on the sofa. “You have to know what he says before you can propose.”

Derek’s brows shot up. “Pardon?”

“You’re proposing, right? You have a box in your pocket and you keep touching it. Or—”

“No, I’m—I’m proposing.”

“Exactly. So you have to know what he thinks about this before you get engaged.”

“Do you, um. Do you think he’s not gonna….”

“Want to tie you up and beat you? Please, this is Stiles we’re talking about. If you can tell him what you want, he’ll take it from there.”

Derek nodded slowly. She was right—it was half the reason that he wanted to marry Stiles at all. Derek spent enough time being the Alpha to his pack; he didn’t want to have to take charge in his relationships. 

“Are you sure?” Derek asked. 

Lydia rolled her eyes. “Just talk to him before you get too worried.”

###

Derek had started making dinner every night for Stiles. And breakfast every morning. And lunch every day. 

Derek had started cooking quite a bit, actually. But it was probably for the best, because Stiles’ cooking abilities went as far as microwaving a Hot Pocket on the popcorn setting and then panicking when it caught on fire. 

Seeing as Derek didn’t do great around uncontrolled fires, that had been a very, very bad situation, and had resulted in Stiles being permanently banned from the microwave. 

And when Stiles had used the microwave again, three weeks later, and blackened a package of bacon before shorting out the fuse, Derek had taken over the situation—the one time he’d ever done it—and thrown out the microwave. 

It was little more than a lump of burnt-up electronics by that point, anyway. With extinguisher dust all over it, too. 

Bulky trash day hadn’t come fast enough. 

Derek smiled to himself, flipping the pancake. If he’d been told ten years ago that he’d be looking forward to bulky trash day and decluttering his house with Stiles’ help—or, rather, with Stiles trying to drag back in bulky trash by himself because “We could use this!”—he would’ve laughed at whoever the hell was trying to fuck with him. 

And then probably punched them. 

“Honey, I’m home!”

Derek rolled his eyes. This was the man he was in love with. 

And with that thought, his heart started pounding. He was about to have a very difficult conversation that would either go very, very well or very, very badly. 

With Derek’s luck—with how _incredible_ the last few years had been—everything was about to get taken away from him. 

Derek wasn’t greedy, as a general rule. He had a ridiculous sum of money, in large part thanks to Laura’s careful investments in New York, but he didn’t hoard it. Whatever wasn’t still tied up in stocks or bonds either went into small businesses with good ethics or directly to somebody who needed it. Or sometimes just wanted it. 

He wasn’t greedy. With his money, with his life, with his possessions. But with Stiles? Derek was greedy. He was endlessly greedy, and he was possessive, and he just—

Stiles was the best thing that had ever happened to him. Ever. The idea of giving him up was anathema. 

The idea of Stiles _leaving_….

“Hey, Der-Bear,” Stiles said and Derek smiled weakly at him. 

“How are you.”

“No question marks today? Okay, well, I’ll make up for them? Every sentence will be a question? Dinner smells good? I’m doing great, but I’m hungry? I’m excited for dinner?”

Derek laughed despite himself—despite the nerves rolling through his guts. “I made breakfast for dinner.”

“Yeah, I can see that. Can I ask why? Is something up?”

He shook his head, taking another pancake off and setting it on a plate to put in the oven. He poured the next one first, though, to let it start cooking. “Nothing’s up.”

“Then why?”

Derek shoved the pancake on top of the rapidly-growing stack in the oven with a shrug. “No reason.”

“Last time you cooked like this….” Stiles’ voice turned almost fearful. “Do you want to change something? Between us?”

Derek shrugged again, keeping his focus on the bacon frying and crackling away. 

“Okay. Um. You didn’t need to make dinner to tell me you wanted to stop the scenes, or— Oh. You want to end all of this, don’t you.”

Derek whirled around, the bacon still grasped between his tongs, dripping fat onto the floor. He blushed and turned back around to stick it back in the pan, shaking his head all the while. “No, I— No. No, that—that wasn’t it. That wasn’t it at all, actually, um—”

“Derek, you’re—”

“I can’t—” Derek dropped the tongs on the counter, claws shooting out of his fingers as he winced with the sharp pain—his gums itched and his fangs dropped and he could feel his eyes flicking between werewolf and human—he could see the edges of his vision tinting red intermittently. 

A hand touched his shoulder and Derek jumped back, snarling, but his tail would’ve been tucked between his legs. This wasn’t— He didn’t—

He couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t breathe. He was— He—

“Derek!”

_Stiles_. It was Stiles. Just Stiles. 

But Stiles was leaving. Stiles was leaving, Stiles wasn’t staying anymore. Stiles was leaving him, and that was good, that was the best for him, that was what he deserved, someone better than Derek, and anybody was better than Derek, Derek deserved this, he deserved Stiles leaving, and going, and never, never, _never_ coming back—

Something was burning. 

His eyes flew open, and there were Stiles’ staring back at him, honey whiskey, rich and beautiful and—

Not Derek’s anymore. 

Derek suddenly remembered his mother warning him to never use one person or one thing as an anchor, because if it ever left him, he wasn’t going to be able to control his shift again. 

Something was smoking, and Stiles swore, and Derek took the opportunity to shift fully, into his alpha form, and took off running through the house, crawling under the bed and huddling up into a tight ball, tail tucked over his nose so he didn’t have to smell the smoke that was going to consume him whole. 

The emptiness that was going to consume him whole without Stiles there to stop it. 

Derek drifted in and out of what felt like sleep, but couldn’t have been. Maybe it was just consciousness. 

Maybe it wasn’t anything to worry about. 

Maybe it was something to worry about. 

But all of his worrying was going to Stiles, and what he was going to do now that—

“Do I seriously have to come in after you, Sourwolf?”

Derek whined, tucking his feet tighter to his body. He’d made a tactical error—he had cornered himself. 

Nobody should still be here—but this was somebody wearing _mate_ scent, and—and—and that _had_ to mean they were safe, didn’t it?

Nonononono _mate_ left. _Mate_ left. 

_Stiles_ left. 

“Fine,” the voice said, and Derek whined again, long and low, hoping that maybe whoever it was would decide that Derek was too pitiful to come after. He wasn’t—

The voice—the body it belonged to—was shuffling on the carpet, and Derek changed tactics, growling viciously. 

“I know, Der,” the voice said. 

Derek snarled, lunging forward to snap at the voice. 

“Hey!” 

Derek cried and scrabbled backward as hands reached out and grabbed his forelegs hard, but he didn’t dare bite at whoever this was. If they’d taken a warning snap that badly, Derek didn’t want to think about what they’d do for a bite. 

The moment Derek was back in a dim room, he took off for the door and ran into it with a dull thud. 

It was closed. It wasn’t closed when Derek went in. 

“Hey, Derek,” the voice said, and Derek _screamed_, tearing around the room, trying to find an exit. “Derek. I’m not leaving. I’m not leaving you, okay? You’ve made it pretty clear that I misunderstood.”

Misunderstood _what_? Nothing was _misunderstood_. 

The voice was trying to kill him. 

“Derek,” the voice said again, and then fell silent. “Okay. I’m gonna call somebody, okay? I don’t know what happened, but I’m sorry if I caused this. Or contributed. Okay? I’m gonna call someone.”

Derek dove underneath the bed again, pulling himself tight into the furthest corner, not daring to lie down again. 

He was so scared. He was so scared. 

He whimpered under the bed, unable to stop himself from crying. He didn’t want to be here. He wanted to be out in the woods. 

If the door opened….

Like magic, the voice moved and then the door creaked and Derek shot out from underneath the bed, claws scrabbling on the hardwood as he sprinted upstairs, ignoring the voice’s panicked cries. 

He could hide up here. He could hide up here. Maybe if the voice opened another door, he could get out of this maze altogether. 

There was a hallway and there was a room filled with boxes. 

Derek crawled into them, trying to focus on getting deep within them before the voice caught up with him. 

“Shit, Derek!” the voice yelled, and a crackly voice, softer, said, “Where is he now?”

_Safe_, Derek thought. 

Some time later, the voice left, going down the stairs, and Derek slipped out of the room, slowly descending the stairs. 

The front door opened, and Derek took the opportunity for what it was—a chance to escape. 

He bolted out the door, turning sharply towards the woods, and ran as hard as he could, muscles burning. 

But he was safe. 

He was safe. 

It was dark out. Time for bed. 

Derek sniffed out a spot, marked a few trees nearby to claim it, and dug himself a hole to sleep in, turning around four times before he dropped down, curling up and settling for the night. 

He shivered, but not from the cold. 

He wanted to go home. 

###

Derek woke shivering and naked in a dirt hole. 

He tried to take inventory as he sat up. No injuries—no wolfsbane poisoning. Nothing seemed physically wrong. 

So it had to be something mental. But what the hell _was_ it? 

Okay. The last thing that he remembered was making dinner—bacon and pancakes, more specifically, since he hadn’t been sure if Stiles had an egg preference that night—and he’d been making the bacon, specifically. He’d picked up a piece to flip it and—

_Oh. _

_Oh, shit. _

Everything came rushing back to him and Derek winced, burying his head in his hands. This was so fucking bad. 

He’d had so many opportunities to stop—to come to his senses—and he hadn’t. 

Part of that, admittedly, was because once he was shifted, he wasn’t coming back easily. 

But in order to get back home without somebody calling the police on a naked man sprinting through the woods, he needed to shift back. 

He closed his eyes and tried to stretch into it—which worked, but not as easily as it usually did. His bones popped and he had to force himself through it the rest of the way. 

But he needed to see Stiles, so it didn’t matter. He needed to see him and try to explain himself. He needed to try and just—fix this. Fix everything that he’d fucked up so badly. 

He was going to ask Stiles to do something that—required so much trust, and then—

Derek felt so fucking defeated. It wasn’t like he’d meant to fuck this all up so bad. He’d wanted to propose to Stiles, not guarantee that Stiles would be completely driven away. 

But he’d made his bed—he’d dug his _grave_—and now he was just going to fucking deal with it. 

He was just going to fucking deal with this. 

It was all right. He’d figure out how to fix things with Stiles enough that they could exist together in the interim for Derek to find a new pack. 

It wasn’t like the pack was going to leave Stiles, after all. Maybe Isaac would come with Derek, but even Erica and Boyd were loyal to Stiles first and Derek second. 

That was good. He didn’t want to leave Stiles unprotected. He couldn’t leave Stiles if he was unprotected, and—

And all of the pack’s cars were at his house. 

Derek wilted, head drooping, but he kept walking. 

He barked at the door, just once, and sat down to wait for somebody to either open the door or leave him out here and either way, tell him what he deserved. 

The door opened and Derek was hit with the scent of _Stiles and fear and worry and relief_. 

“Oh, thank God,” Stiles said, dropping to his knees and throwing his arms around Derek, sobs wracking his body in a matter of seconds, and Derek shifted back without thinking, wrapping his arms around Stiles and holding him while he cried. “I thought you’d left,” Stiles gasped. 

“I’d never leave you.” 

Nobody else came to the door, which was probably for the best, because—shit. This—this was private. 

“I’m so sorry, Stiles.” Derek hugged him tighter, tucking his face into Stiles’ shoulder. “I’m so sorry.”

“You?” Stiles pulled back, and Derek’s heart lurched—his face was streaked with tears, and his eyes were too red and puffy and bloodshot to have been just from crying for a couple minutes. 

He must’ve been awake all night. 

Derek nodded. “I’m sorry. I should know better after four years, it’s just—”

“I’m sorry! I crawled after you when you were almost feral and dragged you out from under a bed and _scolded you_ when you got scared!”

Derek reddened, feeling himself sweating heavier than he’d been a moment ago. “I don’t— I tried to bite you.”

“That should’ve made me stop.”

“I don’t blame you, Stiles,” Derek said, almost desperately, and Stiles laughed through tears. 

“Of course you don’t.”

Derek felt too cold. He swallowed hard. “I—I need to—”

“Yeah, sorry, of course. Have at it, it’s your house after all.”

Derek stood, offering a hand to Stiles. His stomach was churning. 

Stiles took his hand and not only used it to pull himself up but kept holding it. 

Derek stared down at their hands. “I… I can’t. I’m sorry.”

Stiles’ scent soured, and Derek pulled his hand out of Stiles’ loose grip. 

“I’m sorry,” he repeated, and bolted to the bedroom to get dressed. 

“Derek,” Erica called, but Derek was already inside the bedroom and closing the door behind him. None of his pack members would take that as anything other than what it was—a warning not to test him. 

Derek dug out a T-shirt and sweatpants and turned to see Stiles staring at him. 

Derek just headed to the bathroom, turning on the shower. 

“Derek, did I do something?”

He tossed the clothes onto the counter and took a towel out from the cabinet. “It’s not you, I promise.” He set the towel down by the shower and tested the water with his hand before stepping inside. “It’s fine, Stiles. I just need a few minutes.”

“I found the ring.”

Derek froze, halfway through pulling the shower door closed. “You what? What ring?”

“You know what ring. It was in your pocket last night, apparently.” 

“Apparently,” Derek agreed shakily. “Why—”

“You’re shutting me out. Again. And I don’t know what I did, Der.”

He stuck his face under the spray in lieu of answering—trying to take a moment to think and figure this out. “It’s just— Stiles, I think I need to go back to therapy. Again.”

Stiles sighed heavily. “Kate’s cropping up again?”

Derek nodded. “I know you’re not her. I promise.”

“I know. It’s okay, don’t worry about it. Do you want to talk about things in private?”

He nodded again. 

“Okay,” Stiles said softly. “I’ll come back when they’ve left.”

Derek picked up the soap and started lathering as Stiles left the bathroom. 

Even though Kate was coming back again for Derek—she was still alive and well in Derek’s mind—it didn’t change things for him. He still wanted Stiles to take him apart and tie him up and hang him from the ceiling and flog him while he was blindfolded and couldn’t see where the next strike was coming, but his whole body was accessible. 

He still wanted to marry Stiles and mate him fully. He still wanted to make Stiles his and make it clear to him that Derek belonged to Stiles completely. 

It just made it harder to admit. 

Derek focused on just getting through the next few minutes. 

###

In the aftermath, things ended up getting shuffled around. Derek couldn’t really broach the subject of increasing his submission to Stiles when Stiles was so nervous about Domming him that he had woken up early four days in a row to try and make Derek breakfast so Derek wouldn’t even engage in service submission casually. 

It didn’t really hit Derek, though, that he still hadn’t told Stiles until the evening of their four-year anniversary, the day that Derek wanted to propose originally. 

Derek fidgeted with his suit, trying to adjust the tie properly. 

“Let me do that,” Stiles said, striding over confidently and batting Derek’s hands away. “You okay?”

“Fine,” Derek said. 

“Something’s bothering you.”

“It’s fine. Don’t worry about it.” 

Stiles nodded slowly. “All right. I’m going to get my shoes on. Will you be ready to leave soon?”

“Give me five minutes?” Derek kissed Stiles quickly. “I’ll be out soon.”

“Okay,” Stiles said, kissing Derek again before he left, closing the bedroom door behind him. 

Derek waited until he was reasonably out of earshot and then launched into action. He’d talked with Lydia about this for at least an hour, and he was just going to take her advice for once. Everything that she’d suggested, he was doing. 

He pulled out the kink questionnaires—the blank one and the one that he’d filled out—and the ring box. And the eye mask blindfold, cheap but more symbolic than anything else. 

Derek had told Lydia honestly that, in an ideal world, he’d offer Stiles a ring, Stiles would offer him a collar, and they’d mate each other that night. 

Lydia had told him that, in order for that to be any kind of a possibility, he’d need to put himself out there. Completely. 

So Derek was going to do just that. 

He folded the questionnaires and shoved them in his pockets along with the ring box, the eye mask, his phone, and his wallet. 

Hopefully, Stiles wouldn’t immediately assume that Derek was proposing tonight. He wanted it to be _something_ of a surprise, even if Stiles expected it somewhat. 

He could do this. No matter what Stiles said tonight, Derek was going to be okay. Lydia had assured him that she’d stick by him first, and Derek hadn’t picked up anything that would lead him to believe that she was being anything less than completely honest with him. 

###

The restaurant was quiet. It was a place that Lydia had recommended, actually, and told him he could rent out if he wanted to. All the waiters there were well-versed on kink culture, and Lydia was a part-owner by shares, so Derek was pretty sure that things were going to go okay in their environment, at least. 

“This is _swanky_,” Stiles said, and Derek chuckled. 

“Lydia recommended it.”

“Oh, yeah, you two have been getting along pretty well lately. How’s all of that going?” Stiles dunked another shrimp in cocktail sauce. 

“Um, actually.” Derek pulled out the papers. “I wanted to talk to you about something.”

“Are we signing a contract?” Stiles swallowed his food at Derek’s nose wrinkle. “Don’t food-shame me, it’s good.”

“I thought we could fill out something more extensive,” Derek said carefully, unfolding the questionnaires and offering them to Stiles, who looked at him warily but took them nonetheless. 

“Okay,” Stiles said, and then must have read the title because he shut up without another word. 

Derek dug into his food, grateful that the portions here were nothing short of _completely outrageous_. 

Stiles looked up, catching his eye a few minutes later. 

His pupils were blown. 

“You want me to tie you up and hang you from the ceiling?”

Derek nodded. “It’s fine if you don’t want to, but—”

“Oh, I want to.” Stiles turned right back to the questionnaire, then, a moment later, looked up and said, “I need a pen, Derek.”

Derek flagged down a waiter. “Do you have a pen we could borrow?”

“Absolutely,” the man said. “Anything else?”

“That’s fine, thank you.”

Stiles held out a hand without looking, opening and closing it in a toddler-like silent demand. 

Derek took the pen from the waiter, smiled politely, and pressed it into Stiles’ palm. Stiles immediately started writing with it, scribbling madly enough that Derek wasn’t sure he could eat anything with how his stomach was tying itself into knots. 

“Here,” Stiles said a few minutes later. “You can look that over if you want.”

Derek held the questionnaire with shaky hands. What this said was going to determine a lot—what the “Other Notes” section said was going to determine a lot. 

He couldn’t stop himself from skipping to the very end and reading Stiles’ answer to his question. 

Derek: Do you still want to be with me? 

Stiles: _**YES.**_

With his heart in his throat, Derek set down the questionnaire, shoved his hand into his pocket, and pulled out the ring box. 

He took out the ring under the table and glanced down at it. 

He tried to imagine himself asking Stiles to marry him, and imagined going home with him still not having proposed. 

“Will you marry me?” Derek held out the ring, elbow resting on the table. 

Stiles blinked at it. 

And then he nodded. 

He covered his mouth and said, very muffled, “Of course, but why did you have to ask me right after I took a bite?”

Derek laughed, all the weight of the world finally leaving his shoulders. 

They were engaged. 

_Finally_. 

###

They’d gorged on food and wine—and Stiles had offered Derek some wolfsbane to spike his wine with, obtained from Deaton—and by the time they got home, Stiles had to hold Derek up. 

Derek was a lightweight, who knew? Not either of them, or Stiles would have definitely made Derek stop after the first glass. 

Or, well. Before the ninth. 

Instead of scening, they fell into bed, drunken messes, and slept like logs until noon the next day. 

But after they recovered from their hangovers, they were able to start discussing the logistics of hanging Derek up from a ceiling, which was easily the most complicated part of the potential scene. 

Stiles had finally come to the conclusion that the best thing to do was to have Derek do something else while he worked on figuring out the logistics, because Derek kept getting hard whenever Stiles said something dirty like, “You’re gonna look so hot when you’re blindfolded and suspended so your whole body’s accessible to me,” or, “God, I’m gonna fuck you so hard you can’t walk, and you’re just gonna take it,” or, “I think we need something to support your torso.”

Okay, that last one was admittedly not necessarily dirty talk _per se_, but Derek was kind of aroused by just thinking about the possibility. Sue him. 

So instead of Derek getting to hear about Stiles’ plan for the scene as it developed, he was pretty much in the dark. Stiles was even getting up and leaving the room when he was talking on the phone with—somebody. 

Deaton? A contractor? 

It all led up to one afternoon when Stiles kicked him out of the house, offering him a movie ticket to a movie that—admittedly, Derek _had_ been wanting to see, and Stiles _had_ called it “the most boring action movie of all time,” and this way, as Stiles explained, “You won’t have to listen to me muttering about how boring it is the whole time.”

“Why do I have to go see it right now, though?”

Stiles had thrown up his hands in frustration. “If you don’t realize what’s happening tonight by this point, Der, I don’t think you’re going to figure it out once it’s already happening.”

Derek had frowned, and then he realized what Stiles was talking about. “Oh, you mean— You mean we’re doing that today?”

“_After_ you see the movie. And also go to a library or something for three hours. _No alcohol_.”

“I don’t think libraries serve alcohol.”

Stiles had snorted. “But God, how I wish they did. Now _go_. Have fun. Oh, and I expect you to be able to stay hard for the scene, so if you jack it while you’re out, you’d better keep enough in that you can perform. Got it?”

He’d rolled his eyes but agreed. “It’s not like I can’t control myself for a few hours.”

During the movie, Derek couldn’t stop thinking about what the evening would hold, and, yes, he broke. 

He hightailed it to the bathroom, shoved a fist in his mouth, and jerked off into the toilet. 

It wasn’t exactly one of his best moments. 

On the bright side, after that, it got easier to handle his steadily-growing arousal. The library ended up working out fine—he spent most of the three hours Stiles had requested reading cookbooks and using one of the computers—on three different sessions, since the library capped it at sixty minutes—to access his weekly spreadsheet and plan out some meals. 

He logged out as soon as he’d spent exactly three hours at the library, gathered the cookbooks, and headed to the checkout desk to scan them out. 

“Big plans tonight?” the librarian asked, smiling at him politely. 

Derek almost choked. “I—I— Yep. Yeah, I’ve got to find some new recipes for my husband.”

His smile soured. “Of course,” the librarian said. “Here.” 

Normally, it would’ve upset him. But in that moment, Derek couldn’t give _less_ of a fuck. 

“Have a good day,” Derek said, taking the books and the receipt. 

_Why the hell was “She Comes First: The Thinking Man's Guide to Pleasuring a Woman” checked out on his library card? _

Derek sighed as he started his car. He was going to have to have another talk with Stiles about maybe not checking out the most embarrassing items in the library on Derek’s card. 

Well, at least now he was pretty sure he knew why that poor librarian had looked so upset. 

###

“Stiles!” Derek called, setting the cookbooks on the table by the door. “You can’t keep checking out books on female orgasms on my library card!”

“But then they’d be on my library card!”

Derek rolled his eyes. “They’re _your_— Hi.” Derek blinked. “I like your outfit.”

Stiles preened, fluffing his hair further. It looked obscene, honestly, like somebody had been running their hands through it, pulling on it, _clutching at it_….

Derek might need a moment. 

Because the rest of Stiles’ getup was worse. He was wearing what looked like actual leather pants, which should have been ridiculous, but they were so low-slung on his hips that, thanks to the fact that he wasn’t wearing a shirt at all, his happy trail was visible from his navel down to where it spread into actual—

Derek whined, fangs dropping. “Stiles.” 

Stiles grinned. “You’re gonna _love_ this, Der.”

He already was. If this was the whole thing, Derek would still be happy. 

“I need your consent for a few things.”

“Go for it.” 

“Blindfolds—it’s kind of just a fancy eye mask, but you wouldn’t be able to see—floggers, oral sex with you receiving, bondage, and suspension.”

“Yes to everything but—the— Does it have to be receiving?”

Stiles shrugged. “If you feel uncomfortable with it, I can change things up, but you can still blow me after I let you down.”

“Okay,” he said. That was Derek had been hoping for as an answer. “That sounds good. That sounds great, actually, because, _oh my God_, seriously, dude, your mouth is—”

“Don’t call me dude.”

Stiles nodded quickly. “Sorry, yeah, just got distracted. Okay, let’s do this thing.”

Derek snorted. “I love it when you talk dirty to me,” he joked, unlacing his boots and kicking them off. 

“You want me to talk dirty to you?” 

Derek looked up quickly. “No, not unless you want me coming in my pants.”

Stiles looked like he was seriously considering that and Derek whined. 

“Are you serious, Stiles?”

Stiles shrugged. “Why not? C’mon, Sourwolf.”

Derek followed him in sock feet to the bedroom where it smelled like drywall and sweat—and where several new, shiny metal hooks were mounted into the ceiling. “You’re sure that’ll hold me?”

“Positive,” Stiles said. “The guy who did it put up some ropes on them and we jumped on them for like ten minutes. He was bulkier than you, too, and he was just jumping on one at a time. You’ll be fine, I promise.”

Derek nodded slowly. “If you’re sure.”

“I am. But if you’re having second thoughts, we don’t have to do this. I can think of a lot of fun things to do with those that don’t even involve sex. For example, tire swing.”

Derek blinked. “That’s a terrible idea.”

Stiles laughed. “Only if I get drunk and fall asleep on it.”

“You’ve considered this,” Derek said, brows raised. 

“Possibly. Strip.”

Derek probably should have been worried about how fast he responded to that, but he didn’t consider it for longer than a moment, pulling his shirt off and shoving his pants down. 

“Ooh,” Stiles said. “No underwear today. I like that. Maybe I should make you freeball it regularly.”

Derek flushed. If he did that, anybody would be able to see the exact outline of his dick at any moment they wanted. 

“Maybe,” Derek said softly. He was already laying himself bare enough at the moment, though, and, as he folded his clothes, he considered the idea that maybe he should mention how exciting the idea of anybody seeing the exact shape and size of his dick was. 

“You like that, don’t you,” Stiles said. “Making it so anybody just looking over could see your cock and balls.”

“Maybe,” he repeated. 

Stiles dropped the subject, but he could see the gears shifting in his brain. This wasn’t going to be the end of their discussion about this for long. 

Derek wouldn’t have it any other way. 

“This is the mask,” Stiles said, offering him a soft, plush-looking eye mask. “I’ve tried it on myself—you can’t even see light through it. And this is the flogger.”

Derek tested the leather strips. They were stiff enough that it would sting pretty badly if Stiles really put his arm in it, and Derek hoped that he would. “Looks good,” he said. 

“I’m glad. Let me get this set up,” Stiles said, and set the mask and flogger down on the bed before digging around in the nightstand drawers. 

“Please tell me we’re not out of lube,” Derek said idly.

Before he could process what was happening, Stiles had the flogger in his hand and was slapping it against his thigh, _hard_. 

Derek yelped, jumping as his claws popped out involuntarily. Normally, his control was better—normally, his control was _impeccable_—but, over the last two years, he’d learned that, during scenes, and right before and after, he had almost no control to speak of. Neither Stiles nor Derek had guessed why yet, and Derek at least hadn’t mentioned it to Deaton or Lydia. 

He wouldn’t have particularly minded if Stiles had talked about it, but it wasn’t something he wanted to tell everybody he knew, either. 

“Don’t sass me, boy.”

“I’m sorry, Sir.”

Stiles set the flogger back down, shooting him a sharp look, and turned back to the nightstand. “I’m getting out the hardware to string you up with, in case you’re wondering. You could ask me politely, boy, rather than sassing me.”

“I know, Sir.”

“Good boy,” Stiles said, taking out several metal chains that—actually looked sturdy enough that Derek finally felt his nerves calming. 

That, or it was because he was finally submitting again. 

Derek remained quiet while Stiles assembled the suspension thing he was using. It looked a little intimidating, but Derek was excited nonetheless. He knew that Stiles wouldn’t have even considered doing this unless he was certain that he could execute it safely, and he trusted Stiles. 

“Okay,” Stiles said a few minutes later. “Lie down and put your hands to your feet.”

Derek blushed but did as he was told. He was unpleasantly exposed, but he was guessing that that was kind of a big part of Stiles’ plan for the scene. 

“Good boy,” Stiles said, like it was a habit, as he tied Derek’s wrists to his ankles and then to the bar attached to the mounted hooks. “Listen to me carefully, Derek,” he said, staring into Derek’s eyes so intensely that Derek shivered. “If _anything_ feels weird, you tell me. If your finger tingles, if your toe twitches, if you feel dizzy, if you feel _anything out of the ordinary_, fucking tell me. No hesitation, just say red. Got it?”

“It’s— Stiles, this isn’t that _danger_—”

“You say red or we’re not doing this. If you don’t call it and something’s actually happening, you could _die_, Derek. You say. Fucking. Red. Do you get me?”

Derek swallowed, but he nodded. “I understand.” 

“Good,” Stiles said, but he smelled nervous still. 

“Stiles,” Derek said, catching his eye. “I swear I’ll tell you. If there’s _anything_, I’ll tell you exactly what it is.” 

“Okay,” Stiles said. “Okay. I love you, Der, okay? I don’t want to fuck up and hurt you.”

“You won’t. I trust you, Stiles. I wouldn’t have asked you to do this otherwise.” 

It was almost exactly what Derek had told him two years ago. And Stiles finally settled, his heartbeat slowing to normal. 

“Okay,” Stiles said again. “Let’s do this.” 

He helped slip the blindfold on over Derek’s eyes, checking that he couldn’t see anything—judging by the sudden rushes of air, Stiles was pretending to punch him to see if he’d flinch. 

“You can back out,” Stiles said suddenly. “I won’t even—”

“Stiles—_Sir_,” Derek said. “Please.”

“Okay.” 

And Stiles adjusted the ropes or the bar or—_something_, but all Derek knew was that he was being slowly lifted up. 

His heart was pounding, but he was excited. He was ready for this. 

He was _more_ than ready for this. 

Stiles didn’t say anything, and Derek focused on listening to his movements—scenting the fluctuations in his chemosignals. He could hear Stiles picking up the flogger and he tensed, readying himself for the hit to come. 

Warm heat engulfed his cock and Derek cried out sharply, jerking in his bondage. If he wanted, he could probably fuck Stiles’ mouth like this, but he didn’t dare take control like that. He didn’t dare disrespect his mate like that. 

Not—not his mate. Not yet. 

Soon. 

But he had to ask first—had to make sure that Stiles wanted it, too. 

Derek hoped he would. 

Stiles bobbed his head on Derek’s cock, sucking soft and then hard, randomly, _brutally_, and Derek _whined_. 

“Please,” he whispered. 

Stiles just kept sucking and then pulled off with a wet _pop_ and Derek knew _exactly_ what Stiles’ lips looked like after he’d been sucking cock—he’d memorized it the first time he saw it, unable to pull his eyes away. 

Even now, the only reason he didn’t look was that he _couldn’t_. 

He loved Stiles’ mouth, and he loved Stiles’ mouth on him, and it—

The flogger slapped into his skin and Derek _shouted_, cock twitching, and he could smell the pleasure in Stiles’ scent growing and building, but all he could focus on was the sharp sting that he didn’t want to leave just yet. 

He focused on controlling his healing so that it wouldn’t leave him yet. He wanted these marks to stay until they were yellowed bruises, until they were so old that they faded away like a human’s. He wanted to look in the mirror and see the evidence of Stiles’ marks, of Stiles’ _claim_, written all over his body. 

“Shh,” Stiles said, and Derek realized that he was letting out this long, low keening whine, like he was desperate. 

Not _like_ he was desperate, no—_because_ he was desperate. 

He _was_ desperate. 

“I’ll take care of you,” Stiles said, and then he laid into Derek’s bared ass and Derek was sobbing and it hurt, it _hurt_, but then Stiles was pulling Derek’s cock back into his mouth, soothing him with his hands, rubbing and kneading, and Derek was still sobbing, half from pain, half from pleasure, all from _intense_, and he just—

“Please,” Derek gasped. “Please, please, please—”

“Please what?”

“Please let me suck you, Sir,” Derek said. 

There was a long pause, like Sir was really considering it, but his chemosignals didn’t change like they did when he was actually thinking about a decision. 

“Not yet,” Sir said, and Derek sobbed again. 

He just wanted to suck Sir’s cock—he just wanted to be put in his place and told that this was all he was good for, all he _needed_ to be good for, the only _person_ he needed to be good for. 

“You are good for me,” Sir said, and then he was beating Derek again, and Derek whimpered and cried but he was purring, low in his chest and belly, soft enough that he could barely even hear it himself, but he could hear it. 

It was because of Sir. 

God, Derek _loved_ Sir. He’d be so happy if Sir would let him crawl after him all day, on his knees like a good boy, like _Sir’s_ good boy. Sir could take him everywhere he went, make him kneel and hold Sir’s cock in his mouth for _hours_ while Sir worked, just holding him, not even sucking him until Sir told him he was allowed— And then Sir could fuck his mouth, fuck his throat, shoot his load straight down Derek’s throat, because Derek wasn’t good enough to be allowed to taste Sir’s come, to _savor_ it, and Sir—

“Shit, Derek,” Sir said, and Derek shivered. “You’ve gotta stop talking like that or I’m not gonna hold on.”

“Sir, are you—you gonna come?”

“Hopefully not yet,” Sir said, and _not yet_ again. 

“Why not,” Derek protested, but then Sir was taking his cock into his mouth again and Derek couldn’t think of anything other than the slick, soft heat, the warm suction, the way Sir _flicked his tongue_, licking into his foreskin, _tasting_ it, and Derek groaned. “_Sir_.”

“I know, Der,” Sir said, and Derek shuddered all over again as Sir blew cold air all over his wet cock, and Derek could feel precome dripping out of the slit and down his cockhead, down his shaft, pooling at his balls, and then Sir tongued out the precome where it had gathered, lapping at his balls, and Derek gasped for air, because it felt like his lungs had just been punched out of his body, and he was _desperate_, he just needed Sir to _fuck him_, or at least let Derek suck his—

Derek screamed as Sir started raining down sharp, brutal hits of the flogger, beating his thighs and ass, the tails licking over his asshole and balls and his _cock_, and Derek grunted, “I can’t— Sir, I’m gonna—”

“It’s okay,” Sir said, “let go, Der.”

Derek was vaguely aware that his purring was revving up like a motorcycle, louder and louder, and Sir was saying, “What the hell is that? Are you growling— Oh, my God, you’re _purring_, aren’t you?” but Derek was too close and Sir was beating him so _hard_ and _perfect_ and then Sir flogged him _hard_, the hardest strike yet, and Derek roared, eyes flying open behind his mask, and he knew they were red, he knew his claws were out, his fangs—he could feel his brow pressing against the mask harder, and oh, God, Sir was so _smart_, getting a mask that he could wear shifted, that wouldn’t let him see _anything_ even though he was shifted, and—

He came, shooting hard and long and he could barely _breathe_, but that made it even _better_, and Sir was lowering him down, and he was still coming, and Sir was untying his ankles, and then his wrists, and Derek was lying on the floor, and his cock was still twitching and dribbling out come, he could feel it, he could _smell_ it, and he managed to finally, _finally_ catch his breath. 

“Suck me off,” Sir said, and pressed his cock into Derek’s mouth and Derek didn’t hesitate for a _moment_, just took him deep into his mouth, letting Sir set the pace, fucking his mouth and his throat just like he’d wanted, and Derek was aware that he was purring again, loud and happy and _pleased_, so satisfied he could cry, and then Sir’s hips were bucking hard and Derek didn’t know if he wanted Sir to come right down his throat or into his mouth, but Sir pulled out just far enough that only his cockhead was in Derek’s mouth, and then Sir came, and Derek tasted every last drop of it, sucking and swallowing down the first two spurts and then just holding the rest in his mouth until Sir was finished, and he pulled out, but Derek didn’t want to swallow and stop tasting Sir’s load yet, not yet…. 

“Are you— Have you still not _swallowed_?” Sir sounded so amazed, and then he was kissing Derek and licking into his mouth and moaning, and Derek—Derek was too greedy, and he broke the kiss to gulp down Sir’s come, but the moment he did, he opened his mouth and kissed Sir again, sloppy and wet and desperate and Sir was kissing back, but then _Sir_ pulled away, and Derek was going to _cry_, but Sir was shushing him. “It’s okay, Der. Come here, let me help you up, okay?” 

Sir helped him up, helped him stand, got him into bed, and Derek was so floaty, and it felt so _nice_, and he felt like he either _was_ a cloud or he was _inside_ a cloud, and… oh. Oh, it felt _good_. 

Sir ran a hand through his hair, and Derek smiled. “Can I take off your mask?” Sir asked. 

Derek hesitated. “Is it bright, Sir?”

“I’ll dim everything, okay?” Sir moved away and Derek whined despite himself. “Hey, hey, it’s okay, Der. You’re okay. Give me a second, I’ll be right back.”

A minute later, Sir’s weight shifted the mattress and Derek smiled again. “Thank you, Sir,” he said, voice slurred and soft and low and raspy. 

“Thank _you_, Derek. You were so beautiful and obedient for me, weren’t you?”

Derek blushed to the tips of his ears. “Thank you, Sir,” he said again. 

“Actually, the words you’re looking for, Der, are ‘you’re welcome.’”

“You’re—you’re welcome, Sir,” Derek said nervously, but Sir pulled off his mask and planted a kiss on his forehead. 

“Perfect. Come here, let’s let you sleep this off, hmm?”

Derek nodded, burying his face into Sir’s stomach while Sir pulled up the blankets and let Derek hide himself in Sir. 

“Good boy, Der,” Sir said, and Derek smiled sleepily. “I’m so proud of you.”

And with that, Derek fell asleep. 

###

When he woke up, Stiles was carding a hand through his hair and reading on his Kindle Voyager with dim light. 

“Hi,” Derek said, and turned his head to cough. Apparently, his healing hadn’t decided that a sore throat was the highest priority. 

“Welcome back,” Stiles said softly, putting down his Kindle. “How are you feeling? Good? Bad? Aches or pains?”

“Well,” Derek said, making his voice as growly as he could, “my throat’s a little sore.”

Stiles laughed, sudden and loud and bright, and Derek couldn’t keep himself from asking any longer. 

“Can I mate you?”

His heart thundered, and he was suddenly terrified that Stiles was going to say no, that he’d misread everything, but—

Stiles smiled softly. “I thought you’d never ask, Der-Bear.”

**Author's Note:**

> If you enjoyed, please consider leaving kudos or a comment. 
> 
> _This work was inspired by @NihilistShiro's Kinktober prompt list, available here: https://twitter.com/NihilistShiro/status/1162794889970511872 _


End file.
